Depth
by DollyPop12
Summary: He watched as she held the hands of comrades while they died, and as she held blades with which she swore her unavoidable revenge. He saw her harden, yet never crumble. He watched as Petra became complex, though naive, and yet knowledgeable; hollow, but somehow, full of hope, of happiness, of dreams and love. And damn was that impressive.


'This world is made of bones' her mother used to tell her. And since her passing, it has been true. Petra has seen too many bodies wrapped in white gauze, too much marrow crackling in the flame of a pyre, all too much blood, flesh flayed from spines and tears.

And yet, she chose the life of a soldier.

She does not fit in with any of her squad, any of those men with stoic, cold eyes. And she is in no way like Hanji, with a drive and thirst for knowledge. Instead, Petra lives her life smiling, accepting what will come to her and what never will. She sees all the beauty in the world, and so, without doubt, she must accept its cruelty as well.

And so what, that she is a part of the most powerful squad of humanity? It was not achieved through the ruthlessness her instructor tried to shove inside her skull, nor the grim, borderline depressing accounts of revenge or anger. Instead, she is a protector, a defender, a shining ray of hope.

Hope.

When she told Rivaille that he gave her hope, he laughed crudely and dismissed her. He was made of dirt and sorrow, of anger burning so bright, it would consume him, of a fury unquenchable, of a loneliness unable to be filled. His hollows were haunting, his eyes pools of unhappiness, mouth pressed tight into a grimace.

At first, he thought nothing of Petra. She was small, smaller than him, even. Her eyes shone and her smile never dimmed, her hair shimmered, her naivety and fragility easily seen through her transparency. She was beautiful, yes.

But in this world, nothing so pretty can ever last long. And so, inevitably, she collected her scars. On her arms, her shoulders, nicks in her legs, in her armor. And he kept waiting for the sorrow to sink in, for the overwhelming sadness to find a home beneath her flesh, to rot her from the inside out. Though she seemed to never let up, and he watched as she held the hands of comrades while they died, and as she held blades with which she swore her unavoidable revenge. He saw her harden, yet never crumble. He watched as Petra became complex, and naïve, and hollow, and yet knowledgeable, full of hope, of happiness, of dreams and love.

And damn was that impressive. He grew to hate her smile, stretched over her teeth. Grew to despise her love and light, and wanted to watch as she snuffed out, finally spent. Wanted to watch her cry, to see the realization that nothing of worth could ever survive here, but it didn't come. And more and more frustrated, his sparring with her was crueler, rougher, leaving her bruised, half broken.

But she would always stand, always reach for another blade, always spit the blood pooled in her mouth out as she looked at him with those eyes.

And he remembered that gaze no matter what else was in his mind.

Though she was not pure, not white light, not without her quirks. She slowly oozed beneath his skin. Her early morning preparation of breakfast, her steadfast loyalty, her unshakeable kindness. All that was Petra was all that he came to tolerate, all that he came to like, even.

She was an escape, from ropes and falls, from blood and burnt marrow. Eventually, it was she who would hold him tight within her arms, she who would kiss his forehead as he struggled through his nightmares, she who ran her hands through his hair.

It was her he pressed into the cot, warm and inviting, loving and affectionate. Her leg pressed against her chest as he threw all his baggage at her, and she accepted it all.

He would watch her when she wrote letters to her father, when she brushed her hair, as she dressed after a night becoming that much closer with his skin. On off days, he slept with his head against her shoulder, arms encompassing her like they could take on the world and win.

And she made him a better soldier, in a way. More human, more real.

And with that, came more sadness, more comrades falling.

The first time he saw Petra cry, he wanted to kill something. He was a murderer, and so was she, and so was all of humanity because they had to be. He could never dress it up as justice, could never pretend that he was not a killer. But to see her cry, she became so much more than a woman with a blade. She became real, solidifying in front of his eyes as a thoroughly tainted thing, something so wonderfully, beautifully human it could blind anything and everyone.

And though he once personified her as sunbeams, he now sees that she is just a woman. Over five years his junior, too young to slaughter, and certainly too young to be so good at it. He did not scoff at her, but he did not hold her, did not tell her all was well. She licked her wounds just fine on her own, and saw through his cold exterior, and loved him still.

She loved him still.

He could not believe her. This girl, with her letters and her hope, with her deep buried sadness, with her tainted skin and her happy eyes. She did not think of him as filth, did not think of him as a soldier, did not think of him as a killer.

All she saw was Rivaille, and he wanted to thank her, but he never would. He was not a man for kindness. That was why they worked so well together, really. She showed him that it could still exist, after all. She was not a martyr, he would not dress her up in a cloak of goodness. She was the same as all of them.

But sometimes, he stumbled upon the idea that she just so happened to be better. And so, they sat, him next to her, watching the sky, mulling through the death of yet another man they had to bury under the dirt.

And suddenly, she is speaking as if to console him. "This world is made of bones". She says and he lifts his haunting eyes from the ground to look at her and feels the warmth of her palm against his hand.

"My mom told me that all the time. That there was nothing good to be found here. And….for a time, I believed that it meant that there was no point, but now I understand." She said, taking his hand and pressing it between both of hers. She smiles at him kindly, a gentle curve on her face, set aglow by the sun.

"It means we must forge our own happiness. Flesh out from those bones. Be worthy of encompassing this world when all it can do is force us deeper into the hollows of a wound." Slowly, she lifted the hand to her mouth, setting a soft kiss on his war scarred knuckles. He says nothing, his mouth set as she gently turns his hand so his palm is facing the sky. She places soft, butterfly like kisses along his fingers, up his wrist, along his arm.

"Eventually, we will all move on. It's not a sin to be happy, corporal." He moves his arm away from her at that and leans in, cupping the back of her head as he presses them together, her smile soft against his mouth.

He does not want this world to be made of so much sadness, but every once in a while, he feels that perhaps it isn't. When he stumbles upon her rare, solid strength, a pillar of unwavering support, he comes to believe in his cynicism that there can be blooms in snow. And because she is Petra and he is Rivaille, he lays his faith upon her, and in return, she is always there.

And he learns to believe in her words as much as she believes in him. Unwavering.


End file.
